


counting our good years

by retts



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Destiny, Immortal Husbands, M/M, Pining, Ye Old Memories, but the opposite, but they dont know it yet, meet cute, they dont know it yet either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:49:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25633087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retts/pseuds/retts
Summary: ‘We are the only ones left alive, Crusader. Tell me, did you dream of me?’Nicolo starts, his spine unbending. ‘I thought it was a divine message and I was meant to kill you.’‘And I, you, and yet we’re still here. Maybe it’s meant to be the opposite.’‘What?’Slowly, the man touches him. First, with his fingertips and then his palm, until he’s holding Nicolo’s arm and smearing the blood on his skin. ‘To find you so we maylive.’
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 7
Kudos: 237





	counting our good years

**Author's Note:**

> lmao i dont even know what this is but my other fic refuses to cooperate 
> 
> also i have an unhealthy love for anachronisms

Surprisingly, the scimitar falls from the man’s hands.

‘I don’t know about you,’ says the heretic, ‘but I’m tired as fuck.’ Then, he falls back on his ass, elbows perched on his knees as he buries his face in his hands. It looks like he’s crying.

Feeling awkward, Nicolo just stands there. He can’t very well cut a man down while he’s _sobbing_. He’s exhausted, too. Still, he keeps a light grip on his weapon as he sits on the ground. He averts his eyes from the heathen’s desolate form. It’s been – Nicolo doesn’t even know how many days it’s been since he was struck down by the enemy across from him and miraculously came back to life only to repeat the pattern only God knew how many times. He doesn’t hurt, though. Not anymore, at least. The agony of losing limbs and skewered viscera faded faster and faster with each death. His muscles don’t ache with exertion. Vigour courses in his veins and yet Nicolo feels like he could sleep for a month.

The man – heretic, heathen, infidel, enemy – finally lifts his head from his hands. His eyes are red but there are no tears. For some reason, Nicolo can’t look away. His memories of the first few days of battle are obscured by a red haze but there are flashes of those dark eyes here and there, brimming with rage, pinched in pain, and wide with terror when he lived and lived and lived despite Nicolo’s very best to achieve the opposite. It reflects the same terror lurking in Nicolo’s heart.

‘God has abandoned us,’ whispers Nicolo, tearing his gaze away and staring down at his bloody hands wrapped around the hilt of his longsword. Before they marched, the priests anointed the weapons of the crusaders and sent them off with a prayer for victory.

There is no victory in this war, however. Only death for other people.

But then the man shakes his head and reaches out for him. Nicolo flinches back, bringing his sword up between them but with the blade pointing downwards, and the man stops just inches of touching the steel. Nicolo stares at the man’s fingertips, up the length of his arm, and is once again caught by those fathomless eyes.

‘God hasn’t abandoned us,’ says the man, ‘yours or mine. It’s the opposite. He’s blessed us.’

‘This is a blessing?’ And Nicolo brings down his blade on his own skin, hissing when the cut is made. Blood runs down his inner arm, a thin red line, but the wound starts closing before his very eyes. The sight makes Nicolo tremble. He drops his longsword in shock and grasps his wrist tightly. ‘Merciful Father,’ he whispers. It’s the first time he sees it happen. Usually, he wakes up already whole again, ready for more carnage.

‘We are the only ones left alive, Crusader. Tell me, did you dream of me?’

Nicolo starts, his spine unbending. ‘I thought it was a divine message and I was meant to kill you.’

‘And I, you, and yet we’re still here. Maybe it’s meant to be the opposite.’

‘What?’

Slowly, the man touches him. First, with his fingertips and then his palm, until he’s holding Nicolo’s arm and smearing the blood on his skin. ‘To find you so we may _live_.’

coda

‘I’m Yusuf, by the way,’ says the heretic.

Nicolo nearly stumbles in surprise and he says automatically, ‘Nicolo.’

The heath – _Yusuf_ tilts his head and looks at Nicolo curiously. It’s still odd to see those eyes without murderous intent. ‘You didn’t ask.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘My name. We’ve been travelling for days and you haven’t asked for my name. What did you call me in your head?’

Nicolo stubbornly keeps his mouth shut, but then he makes the mistake of glancing at Yusuf. His lips loosen. ‘Heathen, among others,’ he mutters, fingers flexing as he waits for the agony of a scimitar in the stomach. He’ll let Yusuf have this one.

Yusuf laughs, however. It transforms his face, his eyes. Nicolo’s tongue sticks to the roof his mouth.

‘I mostly called you a bastard,' offers Yusuf in good humour. 'I didn’t ask, either.’

‘Oh. Well. That’s fair.’

‘You’re Nicolo, then.’

‘And you’re Yusuf.’

Yusuf smiles at him.

Nicolo tries his best not to stumble again.

**Author's Note:**

> if you like, please leave a comment and a kudos. stay safe, everyone.


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